


Turning Point

by thursday_kat



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Happy Ending, M/M, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:32:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursday_kat/pseuds/thursday_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There comes a time when running away is no longer the answer.  Arthur takes the long road to realization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writteninhaste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/gifts).



> [ **writteninhaste** ](http://writteninhaste.livejournal.com/)
> 
>   
>  , I hope that you enjoy this! I had hoped to push it into the NC-17 realm but, sadly, it just wouldn’t come (haha!). Many thanks to [](http://frackin-sweet.livejournal.com/profile)[**frackin_sweet**](http://frackin-sweet.livejournal.com/) for the beta work and Kin for the read throughs!

**

Arthur is good at running. He is so good at running, in fact, that he makes it look as little like running as possible. It’s easy, simple, and he does it without even thinking. The past few years seem as though they have been nothing but running. Running with Dom away from Mal’s death and then running from the havoc they occasionally left in their wake. Running away from Eames just kind of slips in there, unnoticed at first, and then ignored when it is.

Arthur is very brave and smart when he has a gun pointed at his head. He is far less so when Eames is involved.

Eames leaves him raw, Arthur knows this, and he knows that even seeing the man sends the tension in his body ratcheting up and up and up, until he is holding himself together by the barest of threads.

The night before Eames shows up at the warehouse for the latest job, Arthur is giving himself a pep talk in the mirror. The mirror, unlike Cobb, does not ask him pointed questions. The mirror, unlike Ariadne, does not give him pitying looks. It sits, silent and silvery on the wall, and listens to him complain.

It takes a long time, but then, Arthur is thorough. And he has a lot of complaints to make. After the complaints come promises to himself, that things will be different, that he will be better, or that Eames will be. That they are all lies doesn’t matter, because Arthur knows that if you tell yourself a lie long enough it will eventually come true.

They are in Rio de Janeiro, at the request of Roberts, one of Arthur’s old contacts from his days in the military. It’s a favor, and since Arthur owes Roberts for all that he did for him back in the day, there’s no way he could say no. The job itself is easy but Arthur is unhappy all the same. Arthur’s not particularly fond of South America and it’s not just because the threat of Eames is looming on the horizon. The unfortunate truth is that bad things always happen when he’s in South America (Mal’s death, his mother’s death, Eames getting shot in the gut) and he has begun to associate the whole continent with terrible events.

The warehouse is one of the smaller ones they've borrowed once or twice over the years, and it’s tucked away in a maze of others just like it. They are at the edge of the river, close enough to hear the slap of waves against the docks and the raucous sounds of the gulls. It was the best option they had, for moving the mark in and out covertly, but Arthur secretly hates the place. None of the warehouses, or the cheap, anonymous motels, are ever comfortable but most are serviceable. This one leaves a bad taste in his mouth but Arthur knows that it's not the fault of the building. Roberts couldn’t have known about Arthur’s bad associations with the place. He wonders if the blood stain is still visible on the concrete floor. He doesn’t bother to check for himself.

He is dwelling on that (brooding, Mal would have said) when Eames saunters in, all sunshine and tan and a truly gorgeous smile. Just looking at him makes Arthur’s mouth twist down into a frown. Fucking hell, he was hoping for at least another days reprieve. The promises he’s made himself fly right out the window.

Eames, of course, notices him immediately. "Arthur!" He crows, walking over. Arthur watches him from the corner of his eyes, face turned resolutely to his notebook, knowing that to acknowledge was to encourage and Arthur just doesn't have the patience for that sort of childish game. He hates games, hates them with a passion, and Eames is nothing if not a consummate player.

"Mr. Eames," he acknowledges as the man get close enough to smell. Sandalwood and oranges and Arthur has never figured out how he can still smell so good after an entire day spent on planes. "So glad you could join us."

Above the slap of the water, Eames snort is loud and clear. "Are you still pissed ‘bout what happened in Minsk? That was not my fault."

Arthur raises an eyebrow but holds his tongue. They both knew that it was an epic fuck up on someone’s part and that someone was certainly not Arthur.

"Well, it's hardly our fault that the mark decided to snort a bunch of powder not two minutes before we grabbed him." Eames is eyeing Arthur up and down as he says this, and though he’s sneaky about it, Arthur knows what he’s doing. “Give it up, Arthur, let’s talk about more enjoyable things.”

Eames has that smile on his face, the slight quirk of his lips that says, ‘Let’s talk about all the naughty things I want to do to you in bed’. Arthur, because he’s smart enough to let things go, doesn’t take the bait and turns the conversation towards discussing the upcoming job. He resolutely ignores the faux hurt look that Eames sends his way.

They are sleeping together, of course they are, because no matter how strong Arthur's sense of self preservation is, was, it can't hold out against the absolute irrational desire that Arthur feels towards Eames. He knows that Eames feels likewise, if the frequency with which he puts his hands on Arthurs person is anything of an indicator. So the sex is great, even if the constant teasing, flirting and the general annoyance that Eames makes of himself in the warehouse rather sours the experience.

Eames is casual about the whole thing; comes and goes as he pleases and stays for hours or days before disappearing again for months on end. It shouldn’t matter to Arthur and that it does, somehow, well that simultaneously soothes and terrifies Arthur. Arthur does fear like a cat cornered, all snarled lip and hissed words.

The bane of his life is currently sprawled out in a chair, ankles crossed and eyes shut, plugged into the PASIV with their extractor. Studying Eames, Arthur feels the same, familiar sinking sensation in his stomach. It’s the same feeling he’s had for the past two years.

Arthur lies and cheats and steals for a living. He has secrets that stretch back nearly a decade, and more aliases than any man ought to rightfully have. He can shoot just about any gun out there, and his knowledge of hand to hand combat is extensive. Despite all of this, despite that fact that Arthur is a walking, talking honest to god bad ass, he is terrified of Eames. Of what Eames does to his emotional equilibrium.

The job goes well, in and out and so unlike most of the jobs he did with Dom, and then Arthur, staid, responsible Arthur, is leaving the warehouse before Eames has even levered himself up off of the chair.

 

**

Being a bastard is as good an excuse as any to explain why he’s currently tucked into a cab, heading for the airport and not looking back.

Arthur’s not a bastard on purpose, not really. It's just part of who he is, who he has made himself into over the years since he left home, joined the military and subsequently got the hell out of dodge. In his mind, being a bastard is a bit like being a martial artist or a gourmet cook. Arthur’s prickliness has sunk in, has settled far beneath his skin and it's all the way down into his bones now and there is nothing he can do to change it. To be honest, he's doubts he could.

And Eames, well, Eames catches on every single one of Arthur's spikes and he appears to enjoy doing so. If nothing else, it makes Arthur think that he’s a bit of a masochist. That or an idiot, though Arthur knows he’s no more of an idiot than Cobb is a murderer. He’d have to be one or the other, to keep pushing and getting nothing but Arthur’s bad side every time.

For all that Arthur would like to believe that Eames is an idiot, he knows that he’s lying to himself. (Lying is, after all, another way to run away.) He knows that Eames is smart, very smart indeed. As he would have to be, to maintain the sort of long lasting career he’s built for himself. And he knows that Eames is savvy too, well aware of what he does to those around him, able to hone in on what makes a person tick. He knows exactly which buttons to push and he knows when to pull back. He reads people like Arthur reads databases and it is that damned talent that has Arthur running scared.

Where Arthur steps through the dream world with slippery, sneaky steps, Eames slides through in a totally different manner. He is there and not, both himself (always, just the tiniest little bit - Arthur knows this, can see it in every forge that he's witnessed) and someone totally different. He is sly in ways that Arthur doesn't have defenses for, and wily in ways that make his hair stand on end. And he loves nothing more using all of his vast knowledge to rile Arthur up.

Arthur's had plenty of people over the course of his life who enjoyed pushing his buttons. (His crazy step-father comes to mind.) It's not a sensation that he enjoys and when Eames does it, it's like he's twelve all over again, out of control and with no way of escaping. That Eames likely knows this, despite Arthur’s efforts to the contrary, and that he uses it against Arthur is just another mark against him.

But it is not just Eames’ delight in pushing his buttons that has him slipping away into the night. It’s the tip of the iceberg; important, but not the bulk of the problem.

He is in the airport when his phone buzzes, vibrating against his hip in his pocket. He knows without pulling it out that it's Eames calling him. Of course he knows why; they were supposed to go out tonight, grab a beer and talk and then go back to his hotel room and fuck like crazy.

Arthur doesn't have it in him tonight, not by any stretch, and his skin is too tight and too thin to bear the thought of Eames being there, hot skin against hot skin, everything and nothing Arthur wants at the same time.

He ignores the call, lets it go to voice mail, and only checks it when the plane is taxiing down the runway, when the chance to go back has already disappeared. The message is from Eames, telling Arthur he’s at the bar and very much looking forward to seeing him. Over the line, his voice a slow, hot drawl. It’s his his post-job voice, slightly lowered and far more husky; it never fails to send shivers up Arthur’s spine. If he were at the bar right now, sliding into the worn booth across from Eames, he'd get an easy smile that showed slightly crooked teeth and crinkled the edges of Eames’ eyes. There would be Eames’ questionable clothes and glasses of scotch and the warm, spicy scent of Eames’ cologne, the promise of mutual debauchery hovering just on the horizon.

 

Instead he finds himself lounging in the luxury of first class, drink in hand, computer opened as he checks facts for the next job on the list. The job’s not for a few weeks, but it's easy to distract himself with work, far easier than thinking about what he's missing back in Rio. Arthur’s version of running, it turns out, usually involves more work.

"Would you like another drink, sir?" The flight attendant is very young and very beautiful, her long hair pulled into a smooth sleek ponytail, her makeup expertly applied to highlight the pale blue of her eyes and the lush curve of her mouth. Arthur smiles at her and she flushes, just a little bit, at the edges of her cheeks.

He nods and waits for her to pour him another. She would be easy enough to bag, he knows, and he has does so before, when Eames was too much, when he couldn’t handle the suffocating closeness of their odd relationship. It takes him a moment to realize that he doesn't really want to sleep with her, no matter that she seems very much like she would like to sleep with him. If he were to think about it (he doesn't want to, but he can't lie to himself about everything) he knows that it's been almost two years since he slept with anyone but Eames. Her mouth holds no temptation for him at all.

That knowledge alone makes him want to, makes him want to slip his number to her. He wants to go meet up at a bar, once she’s cleared for the night, and drink until he can pretend she’s someone else. They’d stumble back to his hotel room and he would fuck her into the covers. Barring that, he wants to troll the bars and answer poorly worded ads on Craigslist. He wants anonymous sex in the back room of some smoky club. He wants a lot of things but he knows, with absolute certainty, that until he can unwind himself from Eames, none of it will ever happen.

He smiles at her again as she hands him his drink and then turns back to his work.

There is too much to do, too many tiny details to worry out of this particular file, and he doesn't have time to bother with attractive flight attendants.

When he touches down in Barcelona (the next job is actually in Greece, but he likes Barcelona, for all he dislikes the heat) his phone buzzes off the hook. He ignores it, turns it to silent, and walks out into the humid air. It is beautiful, the sky a gorgeous hazy blue above him and for the first time in nearly a week he relaxes, takes a deep breath and lets it out, almost like he's breathing Eames and his damned beautiful self right out of his body. He picks a small, boutique hotel with quiet sleek lines and a staff that’s known for their discretion. His room is small but beautifully appointed, the bed tucked into an alcove separated from the main room by a sliding screen. It is his kind of room, modern but not cold, all warm wood and dark colors.

He takes a shower and resolutely doesn't think about Eames, about the last thing they did in the shower, which must have been months ago now. When Eames was somehow kneeling on the hard porcelain of the tub (he’d bruised his knees, kneeling like that) pressing Arthur back against the cool tile wall, Arthur’s cock buried deep in Eames’ throat. Eames’ mouth is talented in more ways than one, and Arthur’s learned enough over the years to know that sometimes the best way to shut him up is to turn that mouth towards other, more mutually beneficial acts.

The memory is enough to make his dick twitch with interest but he ignores the temptation of it and instead filters through a lifetime of wank material to settle on something decidedly less painful. Never mind that it's Eames’ voice he hears in his head, despite the fact that the face he is imagining is not him at all. That's the problem, he supposes, of sleeping with a man who slips so easily into the skin of other people; there is no one he can not ultimately be.

Drained from the flight and the emotional hell he is putting himself through (it’s been months since it started), Arthur orders room service and immerses himself once more in his files. The sun sets and the noise on the street swells and eventually quiets before he finally calls it a night and falls into blessedly dreamless sleep.

It’s past noon when Arthur wakes and the room, which had been so cozy the night before, is now stifling. With his phone still silenced, Arthur packs his bag and heads out into the city. He dresses down, just a little bit, nice trousers, a warm cream button up but no tie and no jacket. He debates dressing down even further but even Arthur knows that he uses clothing as a barricade - nothing sets him further apart from his upbringing then beautiful, hand tailored suits and expensive leather shoes. One more thing to wrap around the person he is now, to hide the person he was then (and the person he sometimes fears he still is). Blue jeans are comfortable, but he won't wear them anywhere but home.

He chooses a small cafe, down a narrow side street. There are a handful of locals there and they watch him curiously for a while until they are bored by his quiet, unexciting presence. There is no need to not think about Eames - when it’s important, Arthur knows how to focus.

Arthur works for an hour or so before closing it up and moving on. He wanders from one cafe to another to a small restaurant and then on to another cafe, winding his way through the city. He takes the time, between digging deep into the financial records of Lindby Engineering, to check up on the others; Cobb is still in LA, Ariadne is home, visiting her parents for the summer. Yusuf is still behind his counter in Mombasa just as Saito is once more ensconced in Tokyo. There are others he checks on as well, people whose location, he feels, it’s important to know: Harrison on a job in Taiwan, Sujata in South Africa, Grimes recovering from a nasty accident at home in Ireland.

Eames, he doesn't check in on Eames, because he is running away from Eames and he absolutely, desperately, doesn't want to know if Eames is following him or if he has, finally, given up on Arthur. Better to not know than to be disappointed. He is not often a coward, but in this one thing, he can’t bring himself to check.

Around him, the city is lighting up and people are out on the streets in droves. There are tourists from all over the world; giggling girls and boys on holiday, their skin shaded warm and red from the unusual levels of sun, the occasional flat vowels of his fellow Americans cutting through the murmur. It feels like there are a hundred different languages being spoken. He lets it settle around him, appreciating the feeling of being lost in the crowd, just one among many. It’s a rare sensation, and it’s worth savoring.

With his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Arthur ventures from one bar to the next, allowing himself only one beer per bar as he goes. There are plenty of local brews to choose from and he orders whichever the bartender suggests. He has a few short, stilted conversations with other patrons but he spends the majority of his time trying (and failing) to keep his eyes from the door. It’s only been thirty six hours since he left Rio and hadn’t he left because he didn’t want to deal with Eames?

He walks home much, much later and though the crowds have lessened there are still people out on the streets. He is not drunk, but he is tipsy, and as his walk brings him closer and closer to his quiet, empty hotel room, a sense of despair settles over him. Eames is not coming, and why would he be? Arthur has played this card a few too many times, in the past two years or so, and even men like Eames catch on eventually.

The hotel is quiet and while that should be exactly what he wants, what he has always wanted, tonight the silence rubs harshly against his mind. He doesn't want loud noises, messy people, or forgers who see too well into the heads of everyone around them. He wants quiet and calm and pretty things. But when he has them, other things creep in. In the silence, he can’t pretend that he hasn’t seen the look Eames gives him, over the rim of his coffee cup, the morning after. Arthur can’t pretend that, these days, Eames’ mocking has an edge of something warmer, something heavier in it. That the things he teases Arthur about are inconsequential, never things that actually hurt. Without the push and bustle of the crowds, without the steady, mind-numbing work of digging deep into highly classified information, the ghostly memory of Eames pursues him.

Arthur had turned the air conditioning off before he’d left and the room is stuffy and humid. Even opening the windows does little to bring the cooling night air into the room. The layers of Arthur’s clothes stick to him until, irritated, he pulls at the collar of his shirt. Everything is too hot, too close, and his skin is nearly crawling with the sensation. If he could peel off his skin and leave it behind, he would. Instead, he settles for pulling harder at the buttons at this throat. The buttons pull apart and even though a part of him winces at the shoddy treatment of a good shirt, the fact that it’s no longer choking him is far and away more important.

He lies there, stretched out over the bed, legs dangling off of the side, doing little more than breathing. Truthfully, breathing is about all he feels like he can handle right now. Noises from the street can be heard through the open window and Arthur is suddenly remembering the last time he was in Barcelona, holed up with Eames in a hotel room not so dissimilar to the one he is currently residing in.

Just thinking about that room sends his mind spinning into memory. As his fingers play with the buttons on his shirt, Arthur lets himself remember.

It is a game that they play often, the game of Arthur disrobing for Eames. It is, in fact, one of the only games they play that Arthur actually enjoys. (Arthur running and Eames giving chase is not, in all actuality, a game.) In this game, Arthur tries to be as big of a tease as he can be (and he can be, he's uptight, not frigid) and Eames has to keep control of himself for as long as possible.

It doesn't take much to imagine that Eames is in the room right now. Arthur can picture him perfectly - he'd be sprawled out on the bed, shirt already partially unbuttoned, shoes still on, leaning back on one arm as he watches Arthur peel the clothing from his skin. His eyes would be dark, interested, and Arthur would be taking his time and even the relatively simple tasks of pulling off his tie and slipping his cuff links from their holes would be done with agonizing slowness. By the time he would have slipped off his waistcoat (so many buttons) and undone his shirt (even more buttons) his erection would be pressing hard against the zip of his trousers, the sense of anticipation more heady than anything at the moment. Eames’ own erection would be obvious as well, clearly defined by the trousers he prefers - light weight usually, in deference to the heat. Eames loves the heat just as much as Arthur despises it.

The socks would come next, rolled slowly down his calves, and finally he would be stripping his trousers off. There is no need for anything silly or showy, no lurid winks or stroking of his skin. In the midst of the game, Arthur lets his body speak for itself.

Despite his control issues (and they are many and varied) Arthur doesn't mind being completely naked while Eames is still fully dressed, lounging on the bed. He doesn't know why it's ok, but it makes him feel feral and fierce and he likes to see how quickly Eames can shed his own clothes. It never takes him very long - certainly never as long as it takes Arthur to get to that point. (The longest it ever took Arthur to undress was forty minutes, but it was cold, and he'd put on a lot of layers that morning.) After that the competition morphs into something else entirely, and they work each over, a battle of wills as both try every trick they know to drag or push the other over the precipice first.

The last time they were in Barcelona, Eames had won, though in Arthur’s defense, Eames had spent an ungodly amount of time denying him an orgasm, his gorgeous mouth torturing Arthur with every kiss, every bite. As Arthur’s hands were tied to the bed frame, there was little that he could do in retaliation. He got his own back, a few months later, when he rode Eames hard and fast and exactly as he liked it. Eames had groaned his name as he came.

Tonight, even though the memory has his cock pressing hard against the zip of his trousers, he has no one to play the game with, and he's not such a sad case as to play out that sort of fantasy for only himself. Without the audience, the game looses its flavor. Pushing himself off of the bed, he walks to the bathroom for the nightly ritual of washing up. The mirror reflects the face of a tired man, whose eyes have purpling shadows beneath them. His mouth is a hard slash in his face and a muscle ticks at his jaw line.

He is tired, in so many fucking ways, and he can't even begin to think about them all. It's not even that he's tired of work (he's not) or friends (tiresome at times but not tired of them) but he's tired of situations, of the same damn thing happening every time, and his same damn reaction to it. Maybe he's getting old, too set in his ways. Eames would tell him to lighten up, but that's not the point. Some time or other, things that aren't working wear you down, grind down your gears, until there's nothing functioning left. He feels like that, about Eames, about the non-relationship they share.

He wants to stop, so badly does he want to stop, but all the same, he can't quite bring himself to do it. What they have is beautiful, and beautifully fragile, but it is something and he won't deny the connection he feels with the man. But there should be more, he knows that there should be more, that it can't always be games and chasing and flirtation. But he doesn't think that it would work; lazy Saturday mornings with the paper and coffee, late nights getting home to someone warm and comfortable in his bed. Even if their lives were built for domesticity (which they are decidedly not) neither of them are domestic people. People like them just don’t end up with the house and the picket fence and the dog.

It's a depressing thought, and not one he wants to entertain for long.

He crawls into bed eventually, after a few sharp mouthfuls of vodka from the minibar. At some point in the night he wakes, half expecting to roll over find Eames in the bed next to him. Even half asleep he can’t ignore the sharp twinge of disappointment in his gut.

Days pass, roll right on by like Arthur isn't even there, like maybe his heart (whatever is left of it) isn't breaking, shattering into a million unlucky pieces in his chest. Eames hasn't called, hasn't shown up, and even though that is exactly what Arthur wants, it isn't what he wants at all. It feels like a continuation of the game, the damn fucking never ending game that they've been playing for years now. If Eames has stopped… Arthur doesn't know what to do. What are the next steps? Where does he go from here?

Eventually, he needs to head to Greece and he packs up and leaves Barcelona without a backward glance. This time there are no fond memories to take with him to Thessaloniki.

 

**

Greece is warm, sunny, and it smells like the sea. He eats wonderful food, even if he's staying in the shittiest hotel. They are working out of a hotel this time around and it's a nice change from warehouses and run down office buildings. Clio is sweet as ever, and she shakes Arthur's hand warmly when they meet again. It is supposedly a simple job and it's only Arthur, Clio and Thompson their architect. Arthur spends a few days putting the finishing touches on his research while Clio and Thompson finalize the dream-scape. Thompson's built a cruise ship for the job, and it is gloriously ornate, the sway of the ship beneath their feet eerily realistic. He is the dreamer, this time around, and he works carefully with both of them to cement the world.

The job starts out difficult, but eases up as it progresses. The mark was hard to snag, and didn't go willingly. It'll be a mess to clean up later, and the man who hired them will likely be less than pleased, but it shouldn't have them fleeing the country with guns pointed at their backs. It’s all over in a few hours and Clio is sending the information they’d gathered to the appropriate parties. She invites him out, offers him a drink to celebrate a job done well, but he waves her off.

Arthur has no expectations when he pushes the door to his hotel room open, swearing slightly as the key gives him a moments irritation. For the briefest moment, a slip of a second that he won’t even recognize, he closes his eyes and hopes that there will be an irritating Englishman there, lounging on the bed. The room, however, is as dark and quiet as he left it. Clenching his teeth, Arthur wishes that he had gone for that drink with Clio after all. The realization that his happiness these days seems dependent on Eames does little more than fuel the temper he’s working himself into.

There have been no more phone calls, no quirky emails, no random postcards showing up mysteriously. There has been nothing at all and, for the first time, Arthur thinks that he can appreciate the torment his running has potentially caused Eames.

And just like that (Arthur isn’t quite sure about the hows or whys of it) Arthur is sick of running. He’s packing before he even realizes what he’s doing, simultaneously booting up his computer as he tosses his clothes in the suitcase and zips it shut. He dawdles for a moment, checks up on the others, as though he can hide what he’s about to do from himself. Everyone is right where they should be, everyone but Eames. Eames is not in Mombasa. He’s not in London or New York or Amsterdam either.

Arthur blinks at the screen. Eames is in Barcelona, holed up in the hotel they’d stayed at together all those many months ago, hiding under an alias that Arthur knows all too well. It wouldn’t take too much effort, to find out how long he’s been there, but Arthur decides that he doesn’t want to know.

Flights aren’t hard to come by, when you have cash in hand to smooth your way, and it isn’t long before Arthur is once more in a landing pattern over Barcelona. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t have a single idea on how to go about this, just knows that he needs to see Eames, because not seeing him is worse. Not seeing him has left an oddly shaped hole in his chest.

Eames hides in a way that’s begging to be found. It takes Arthur no more than an hour and then he’s slipping inside Eames’ hotel room.

Eames looks at him from where he stands, half turned towards the window. Arthur wonders if whatever feelers Eames has set on him have warned the man of his impending arrival. It doesn’t matter, either way, and they stand there, poised on the edge of something, staring.

“Sorry,” is all that Arthur says, though he hopes that the exhaustion in his voice and the tired slant of his shoulders says more than his mouth ever will. He says it again, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Across the room, Eames’ looks back at him, unsmiling, eyebrows pulled down slightly, just on the edge of frowning. He just looks and looks and the silence stretches out, awkward and strange. Eames should be berating him, or teasing him, or tossing down words that have just enough of the knife’s edge to them to let Arthur know that William Eames was just in it for a good time and, hey it was all fun and games but Arthur’s head games aren’t worth the price.

There is none of that and Arthur realizes, with sudden clarity, that Eames is furiously angry and he realizes, a short moment after that, that he has the power to hurt Eames.

And that’s all he needs. Dropping his bag by the door, he strides across the lavish hotel room until they are standing face to face. Reaching out, he presses his hand against Eames’ chest, feels the dull thud of his heart and the heat of his skin against his palm.

“Sorry,” he whispers, before leaning forward and dropping his head against the strong line of Eames’ shoulder. This is a new and untapped intimacy, and for a moment he shivers at how easily he’s exposed himself to Eames’ calculating stare. But Eames does nothing more than curl a hand around Arthur’s nape, fingers tangling gently in the hair there.

Eames hasn’t said anything, and Arthur wonders if he will or if this will all be resolved with ridiculous simplicity. It might be, as Arthur has a sneaking suspicious that Eames understands him far better than he does himself. He doesn’t know if it matters, either way. Because Arthur’s coming to realize that it’s pointless to run away from something that he wants.

“Sorry,” he repeats for a fourth time, turning his head and capturing Eames’ lips with his own.

Later, when they are side by side in the rumpled sheets, sweaty and still smelling of sex, Eames props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Arthur, tracing a finger down the line of his nose. “No more running,” he says to Arthur, tapping at the tip of his nose, and Arthur’s hands sweat at the words but he closes his eyes and breathes through the panic.

He wants to agree, to tell Eames with absolute certainty that he won’t ever pull a runner again. Instead, all he says, all he can say, is, “I’ll try.”

Eames’ eyes shutter briefly but then he sighs and nods his head before dropping back down to curl around Arthur. Against the soft hollow beneath Arthur’s ear he whispers, “That’ll do for now.”

**  



End file.
